


A Negotiation

by prettyfacebreaker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Begging, Choking, Cigarettes, Death Threats, Dehumanization, Gangs, M/M, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Restraints, Swearing, Threats of Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyfacebreaker/pseuds/prettyfacebreaker
Summary: "Tómalo con calma, brother. I don’t need to kill anybody. To me, it seems like you need a reminder of who you really work for..."
Kudos: 3





	A Negotiation

The King of Cocaine sat in all his glory at a table in his palace, a deck of cards in his hand, a Cuban on his lip, and the little world under his big thumb. He was high on the hog, living luxury, drinking in the rich smell of cigar. His victim sat only meters away. 

“Pues querida dime…” he drawled. So, dear. Tell me. “What’s goin’ on?” 

It was telling how his victim in question was a cop—and his _employee_ —, who took shuddering breaths because of how tightly his wrists were restrained. He swallowed hard. 

“I did what you asked, Mr. Diaz, but I-I can’t anymore.” 

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?” His Colombian lilt rang through the room.

“Listen, you’ve got every cop paid off from here to Ipsalia but I’ve been offered something bigger than what you could give me.” His voice betrayed no fear until he saw Miguel stop shuffling the cards and turn to face him, incredulous. 

“ _Really?_ Is that right? Well, fuck me. I didn’t know there were other kingpins so willing to have you under their thumb, señor. How much are we talking? Hmm?” He leaned his jaw into the palm of his hand, eyeing the cop cooly. “How much turned you into an honest man?” 

Dropping his eyes, the cop said a number that almost made Miguel _scoff_. Despite this, he didn’t laugh or jump into mockery too quickly. He only stared at him, expression deadpan and fingers drumming the table so lightly you could barely hear it. 

“Didn’t know you could count that high, señor.” Miguel started off his chair, the cop watching him carefully as he circled the room to the back and leaned against the door frame. “Luckily for you, I’m willing to negotiate.” 

Feeling a small smile tug at his lips, the captive raised his head. “Is that so?” 

“It is. John?” His eyes flickered over to the henchman standing idle and ready to please across from him. “Let’s do some negotiating with this gringo. I’m feeling _generous_ today.” 

No sooner had Miguel’s captive caught the implication than John had heaved him up from the chair by the wrists. He winced and struggled against the grip but the man was too stocky for that to work and had no difficulty dragging him over to where Miguel had previously sat. The curious thing about that was he sat under something of a bar. A chair, a bar, and John taking off his belt at Miguel’s will. Horrified as his brain made the connection, panic ensued.

“Y-you wouldn’t kill DAS, they’ll have your _skin_ for that,” the cop hissed in panic. 

“Woah, woah, who says I’m killing anybody? Tómalo con calma, brother. I don’t need to kill anybody. To me, it seems like you need a reminder of who you really work for.” 

John looped the belt over the bar without a second word before jerking the captive up onto the chair, but he wasn’t eager to cooperate. 

“You don’t have to do this, Mr. Diaz. L-Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, alright? It was stupid, I shouldn’t have—I really shouldn’t have—”

Miguel’s expression never changed. “Yes. You’re right. You _really_ shouldn’t have.” 

His victim whimpered as he felt the belt tightening around his throat, pressing against his trachea, squeezing into it inch by inch, cutting off his air until the only sounds in the room were his panicked pleading and the ever-so-shallow breaths.

“What we’re gonna do—me and you—is negotiate.” Miguel remained leaning on the frame, watching with dark satisfaction as the cop struggled against the makeshift noose, trying desperately to stay steady and where the only barrier between him and death was that chair his toes barely grazed. His victim knew that at the command, whether it was a nod or a whistle, John would obey. 

“You gave me quite the number, eh? That was a good number. How’s a million lower?” Giving his offer, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

Wriggling against the leather, he choked out, “Y-y-es. I-I’ll t-ak— _please_.” But the negotiations weren’t finished, not yet. John smirked quietly before kicking the chair, and the cop’s heart nearly gave out from how hard it was slamming against his ribcage. It didn’t fall over, it just moved. Just a little bit. But moved enough. 

“Or how about, two million lower? Or how about three?” Miguel inhaled his cigar, savoring the taste of tobacco sizzling on his tongue. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes momentarily, “Three million lower than your offer is generous, really.” 

“I’ll t-ta-I’ll,” he wheezed out, tears running down his cheeks as he sucked in choked gasps, the leather tightening and tightening and tightening with each gasp he took. “I’m so—.”

“Or how about a clean half of what that cheeky bastard offered you?” 

“ _Please._ ” 

_Kick._

“In fact, maybe I shouldn’t pay you at all.”

_Kick._

“Maybe I should pay a personal visit to that mother of yours. She’s out of the hospital, isn’t she? Always good to see a miraculous recovery like that. Or maybe your pretty little girl.”

“ _NO!_ —” he all but screamed. 

_Kick. Kick._

His feet were on the very edge now, so close to slipping over. 

_Kick._

A single wrong struggle, even the slightest movement, and his neck would snap like the spine of a fish. Forgotten in an instant, and would they even find him? Of course not. Miguel would personally make sure of that. 

_Kick._ “ _P-Please…_ ” he tried his luck yet again, barely audible now. 

Miguel thought he would like that very much, but he wasn’t here for bloodshed right now. No, more of a message to be sent. “This is what comes of playing cards with me, señor,” he rumbled in a low, dark voice as tears slipped from the victim’s eyes. 

A compact thud let him collapse to the floor as the noose was removed, and the cop practically shattered, hunched over on all fours and coughing violently and close to hyperventilation. His hands clawed at his bruised throat, letting the air fill his lungs again, the soft clicks of Miguel’s approaching footsteps drowned out by the thunder of adrenaline coursing through him. 

“Get this piece of shit out of here, John,” he said with a mocking disgust, before leaning down and pressing the cigar right in the tender red marks left by the belt. The cop convulsed and cried out, shaking hands reaching weakly to stroke the burn mark but didn’t have the strength. 

Watching as he was dragged from the room, Miguel resumed his smoking, because owning the world comes with certain privileges. Privileges like enjoying a quiet afternoon with a deck of cards, a Cuban, and some business management.  
. . .


End file.
